You open the door to your apartment and are immediately hit with the scent of… smoke.

“MOLLY?!” you yell, dropping your bag.

She’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, flour dusting her hair, one hand waving a wooden spoon like a wand, the other clutching a frying pan that’s precariously tilted over the stove.

“Oh! Hey!” she chirps, oblivious. “I was just… adding a little flair to dinner!”

You glance at the stove. Flames are licking the edges of a saucepan, and the smoke detector is wailing like it’s auditioning for a horror movie.

“Molly, the pan!” you shout, diving toward the stove. She jumps, spinning in circles, almost knocking over the pot of spaghetti.

“I got this! Don’t worry! I saw a cooking show once. Or maybe it was a baking show… Anyway!” she says, waving the spoon dramatically.

You grab an oven mitt and yank the pan away from the flame, coughing. “Mol, you can’t just ‘add flair’ like this!”

She pouts, looking genuinely offended. “I was trying to impress you! Look, it smells… smoky, but that’s flavor!”

You try not to laugh at the sheer chaos. “Molly, cooking isn’t about drama. It’s about, you know… eating.”

She crosses her arms, still smudged with flour. “Eating is boring! Drama is exciting. And I care about you. So this dinner? Super special.”

Finally, you manage to calm the pan down and salvage the spaghetti with some emergency seasoning. Molly hovers nearby, insisting on “helping” garnish it with whatever she finds in the fridge—blueberries, a lone pickle, and some random parmesan.

When you sit down to eat, the spaghetti looks… questionable, but it smells edible. Molly grins proudly.

“You know,” she says, twirling a forkful with a flourish, “it’s the thought that counts. And my thoughts are epic.”

You take a bite, trying not to choke on a blueberry. “Yeah… epic.”

Molly beams at you, completely unbothered by the near-apocalypse in your kitchen. “Next time? I’ll make dessert. Or breakfast. Or both. Flames included, naturally.”